


Footie to make the boys cry

by TobermorianSass



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Football, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 06:18:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2955362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TobermorianSass/pseuds/TobermorianSass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa plays football for England's women's national team and the press simply can't stop themselves from throwing mud at her. Willas Tyrell is her number one fan and writes columns defending her and her team in The Guardian. It's a match made in heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Footie to make the boys cry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/gifts).



> Very little actual football is involved and more commentary on the sport.

Sometimes, when it's rainy or Arya's being mean to her or there's been yet another caustic article in the sports section of The Mail wondering why she's on England's national team, Sansa likes to fantasize about a telephone call.

Well it's a very specific telephone call. From Ellaria Sand, coach of the women's wing of Juventus F.C. asking her to play for the team. The team is so impressed by her playing, they renew her contract, she becomes an Italian citizen and goes on to play for the Italian national team alongside the famous (and slightly terrifying) Sand Snakes.

Definitely not the English team.

The thing about the Italian team is that for some reason, they don't appear to be confused about beauty and talent on the field co-existing in the same person. It's natural - you're Italian, you dress well, you're well groomed, you're not a national embarassment, end of story.

(Sansa would rather _not_ think about the Italian press and its viciousness when taking down less than attractive women in the public sphere. She likes to imagine that there's a way she can _win_ at this.)

England. Well.

There's this panel, for example, that she's watching, where they're busy debating whether or not her being on the football team is the result of her father also being the much-loved former captain of the men's English national team. It's ten minutes in and they've already managed to dissect and condemn her style of play (uninspired, lethargic) as well as pull up that one photshoot she did for Teen Vogue, two or three years ago - _god, what have they done with her **eyes**_? - used that to make inferences about her intelligence and commitment to the sport (frivolous, clearly uninterested in _real_ football) and concluded, by extension, that she is of no particular use to the women's national team.

It's not as though she isn't used to people eyeing her skeptically when she tells them she plays football - and yes, _enjoys_ it. After all, she has to put up with Theon Greyjoy being snide at her. Every day. Robb says its something to do with repressed insecurities and family issues (because apparently playing for Manchester United when you're a Greyjoy is some kind of eighth deadly sin), but Sansa's inclined to think that it's more to do with the fact that Theon is a little shit. Still doesn't make this hurt any less.

Catelyn Stark comes in, takes one look at her daughter's pinched face, and moves to switch off the TV.

"Don't," says Sansa, "I have to hear what they say."

"It's _unnecessary_. You _know_ Maege says it's been interfering with your play."

"Can't hide forever, can I, mum? Got to know what they're saying about me."

"It's not helping you play any better."

Sansa shrugs and is about to reply, when one of the panellists - a young man with dark curls and rectangular glasses - interrupts the others.

 _It's like comparing apples and oranges_ , he says _, She's a playmaker, not a striker; she looks at the field and visualizes the space and then makes best use of it . She's highly intelligent with the way she plays with space, all her passes are on point and she's set up at least three goals that were crucial for the woman's team to qualify for the World Cup. I think Maege Mormont's done a fantastic job putting together a team that works as a unit and isn't dependent on a few key players here and there and Sansa Stark fits beautifully into that unit, if you take her out, the whole thing would flop and you'd have to rebuild the team from the start - completely ridiculous_.

Well. That's a first. Sansa definitely does _not_ have a little warm glow spreading in her chest at the thought that she has at least _one_ fan out there who actually likes the way she plays and not because she's 'fit'.

It helps that he's... not ... bad-looking... _oh no_.

Catelyn Stark raises her eyebrows, "Looks like you have a fan."

Sansa makes a non-comittal noise.

"Still think you shouldn't watch them. It's mostly eejits with no idea of what's what on the TV all the time," she says, "Go practice with Arya."

Of course, Catelyn Stark knows intimately the million ways a woman can be dragged through the mud if she so much as _looks_ in the direction of a footballer. Over the years she's had them dissect her post-natal body, wondered if there was something between her and Tyrion Lannister the _one_ time she'd talked to someone who was a) a man and b) not her husband at a party, mercilessly torn her to shreds for daring to sunbathe and that's not even including the way they went at her around the time Ned Stark adopted Jon. Sansa knows this. Sansa knows her mum is right, but she still finds herself listening to and reading all the things they say about her out of some kind of masochistic need for criticism.

" _Out_ ," says Catelyn, switching the TV off and glaring at her daughter, "None of this nonsense."

Sansa rolls her eyes and slouches off to change into her kit.

* * *

 "So who's the beau?" says Wylla, jogging alongside Sansa as they do laps of the field.

"What?"

"You know, bloke on the telly. Defended you. Don't pretend you didn't watch it."

" _Wy_ _lla!_ "

"I won't judge you," she replies, "'Sides he wasn't half-bad. Better'n that diver from Chelsea."

"He does _not_ dive," Sansa replies haughtily, "That's _Lannister_."

"Whatevs," Wylla continues on, unconcerned, "Anyway. Who's the bloke?"

"Dunno," Sansa replies, "Don't care."

"Oi! Stark, Manderly!" shouts Maege Mormont, "Less talking, more jogging!"

Wylla falls silent and jogs ahead for a while. Once its clear that Maege's attention is elsewhere, she slows down and falls back next to Sansa.

"So?"

"Not funny."

"Don't you want to know what your knight in shining white armour's called?"

Sansa glances at her, "So you know?"

"'Course," Wylla replies amiably, her green ponytail bouncing up and down, "Heard of a thing called Google?"

Sansa rolls her eyes and speeds up as Maege starts yelling at them from across the field.

* * *

 "Well?" says Wylla, towelling her hair next to Sansa, "Aren't you going to ask me?"

"All right," Sansa leans back against the walls sticky with condensation and shuts her eyes, "Tell me all about him Wylla. Spare me no details."

"What's this?" Alys Karstark asks Wylla, stretching in a corner, "What's this all about?"

"Sansa's got an _admirer_ ," Wylla replies, "Fit bloke too."

"Wicked," says Alys, "What's his name?"

"I was going to tell her before you interrupted, Karstark," Wylla turns to Sansa, "He's a sports commentator for The Guardian and his name's Willas Tyrell, word has it he's been pushing for a column dedicated to women's footie."

"Progressive," Alys wraps herself in her towel, "I like it. Snag him Stark."

"He's not related to that bloke is he?" Alysane Mormont asks from her corner, "Dives a lot, Chelsea?"

"Loras Tyrell does _not_ dive," Sansa says indignantly, "You lot keep confusing him with _Lannister_."

"Better than his brother," Wylla nods, "Got his head and heart in the right place."

"Loras Tyrell does _not_ dive," Sansa says through gritted teeth.

Wylla regards her fondly, "You keep telling yourself that, love."

* * *

 It becomes something of a running gag amongst all of them. Arya insists on singing _Paparazzi_ loudly and tunelessly everytime she sees Sansa, which Sansa thinks is pretty rich considering that Willas Tyrell is a respectable sports journalist (no, she _didn't_ spend an entire evening scrolling through his articles on The Guardian website) with no criminal history, especially not of the restraining order variety. A few days later Jon waltzes out of his room singing _I want to play footie that makes the boys cry_ that he claims Bran helped him write after Sansa's mysterious champion wrote an article about how the men's national team could learn a thing or two from the women's national team.

This may be the first time Arya, Theon and Jon spontaneously settle on a truce in favour of singing this song together at every time they see her. It's bad enough that the normally serious Ned Stark gets a twinkle in his eye every time he sees his eldest daughter.

And now, Robb's linking her an article on Facebook with a winking emoji that leaves her feeling as though she's been betrayed by her family on all sides. All except Rickon, it would seem. Rickon, thankfully, is far too preoccupied with navigating the tempestuous waters of teenage existential crisis to be bothered with his sister's not-so-secret admirer.

Sansa clicks on the link anyway and settles down to read. She won't admit it, not even on pain of death, but she _likes_ reading these articles. It's nice to see someone praising - well not just her, but her whole team. Someone who seems to care about how they _play_ and comments _seriously_ on it. She's even been thinking less and less about that dream phone call.

If she's completely honest, though, she'd have to admit that  _I want to play footie that makes the boy cry_ is a pretty catchy song that she's danced around to in her room, when she's sure that Jon and Arya and Theon are not at home.

* * *

 As things go, she ends up meeting her champion quite by accident. Literally.

She's climbing up the stairs to get to the row of seats where her mother and sister are sitting, at the Chelsea - Manchester United game, when she trips on a stair. Someone grabs her arm and stops her fall.

"Careful," the someone says in a pleasant, tenor that sounds extraordinarily familiar.

Sansa stands up and pushes her hair back only to look down at the now familiar - definitely has _not_ been spending time memorizing the little profile picture Willas Tyrell has on his page on The Guardian - dark curls and kind brown eyes, though up close she can see the odd white streak here and there in his hair and a few lines on his forehead.

"Thanks," she says a little too breathlessly.

"No worries," he smiles, "Sure you're all right? Wouldn't want you to put yourself out before your match."

Sansa laughs and tests her foot, "All good."

"I'm -"

"Willas Tyrell," she says, "I'm ... a fan."

He raises his eyebrows, "You've read -"

"Yes," Sansa's pretty sure her ears are red by now, "They're very good."

Willas hides his face in his hands and laughs and Sansa's pleased to note the red flush creeping up his neck. At least it's not just her looking silly and blushing.

"You must think I'm a bit of a stalker now," he says sheepishly.

"No," she replies, a bit too quickly, _cool, cool, calm and collected_ , she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, "I mean. It's nice. No one writes seriously about us. It's always either about how fit we are, or to take the men's team down a notch. Not just us. If Maege was here she'd probably congratulate you for raising team morale."

"Does this mean I can send the bills for my suits to Hugo Boss now?"

"Ah, I think Maege might have some conditions you'll have to follow," she says, grinning, "Attending all our matches. Being our public spokesman. Defending Wylla's startling choice of hair colours to the public. Cleaning up after whatever ghastly mess my sister creates."

"Piece of cake," he waves his hand, "Would you like to sit down?"

Sansa looks up at where her mother and father are seated together and where Arya is now making rude gestures at her and Sansa decides to postpone the inevitable for later. Much later. Possibly never, but knowing her family, the moment they pile into their Range Rover, they're going to bug her with all kinds of questions and make all kinds of rude jokes just for _talking_ to a nice man.

"Thanks," she says, slipping into the seat beside him.

"For the record," he says, once she's settled in and Margaery's finished introducing herself and they've had an argument about whether Loras dives or not, Margaery adamantly maintaining that her brother is a compulsive diver - _he does dive_ , Willas says, reluctantly pulled into the argument by his sister, _they play it in turns. Lannister dives in a really obvious way and gets all the yellow cards. Loras does it subtly and looks innocent by comparison and wins them penalties. It's the gold curls and the babyface. It's all a strategy_ \- (it's touching how shocked Sansa looks at that, he thinks) - "I really _do_ mean everything I write, you know. It's a unique talent you have."

Sansa blushes and stutters out her thanks, well aware of Arya's piercing gaze on the back of her neck.

She'll deal with her siblings later.

* * *

Two weeks of texting the junior sports commentator for The Guardian later, Ned Stark sits down next to her while she's watching _Strictly Come Dancing_ and clears his throat and her heart sinks because the only time he ever does that is when he's about to give them a serious talking to and she really, _really_ does not want to have to listen to The Talk. Catelyn's _already_ given her The Talk, when she was thirteen and in her opinion, much too young to have to deal with the trauma of her mother telling her about the birds and the bees. If Ned Stark does this now, she won't be able to look him in the face for the next week. Hell, she probably won't be able to look Willas Tyrell in the face ever again and that would be a shame. Probably.

"You have to listen carefully," he says seriously, "It's very important that you do."

She nods at him, all ears, while she hastily taps out a text - _Pls stop my parents_ \- which she sends to Jeyne Poole. The only sensible friend she has, currently, unfortunately, studying in London and far too far away to save her from her family.

"Nice man," says Ned, "which means they're the worst, of course."

"He's not-"

Ned raises his hand to stop her, "He's not that kind of man, he would never do such a thing, but you never know until its too late."

"We're really not having this conversation right now."

"No we are," he says, "Now is a good time. Now is an excellent time.

"No, no it isn't."

"Don't be taken in by him.  Good man, everything you'd want - _I'd_ want for you - but it doesn't change the colour of his soul."

Sansa's brow creases in perplexion, "Um. What?"

"Blue, Sansa."

Sansa makes three different faces of confusion before she sighs, "Please tell me you're not being serious."

"Dead serious," Ned Stark says, solemnly, "He might be a nice man with his heart in the right place, but his family still all plays for Chelsea."

Sansa glares at him as he gets up and leaves, his eyes twinkling.

 _I don't know why I bother_ , she sends to Jeyne and then another one to Willas, _I've just been told not to talk to you bc ur team blue._

 _Welp. Guess I need to up my game,_  he replies a few minutes later. Followed by, _What if we trade?_

Sansa snorts, _And reward my siblings for annoying me? Thanks but no thanks._

_Shame. I was so looking forward to us trading dirty secrets in a seedy London bar._

This is followed almost immediately by: * _club secrets. I meant club secrets._

 _Dirty secrets in a seedy London bar is fifth date material only_ , she sends, _And only if you can find a way to spin it positively to The Sun_.

 _I'm sure I'll think up something by the time we're on our fifth date_ , he replies. _But for the record, what are the first, second, third and fourth dates_?

Sansa bites her lip to keep herself from grinning as she replies to his message. Arya looks in and rolls her eyes when she sees her sister grinning stupidly at her phone, her ears all red.

"Disgusting," she says and Sansa throws a cushion at her.

 _Dinner, first, somewhere enchanting so you can impress me. On our second date we go catch a movie - one that neither of us wants to see, but each thinks the other would like to see. On our third date we go clubbing and I get nicely sloshed and you deliver me home in a gentlemanly fashion while fending off the paparazzi - this is the parent test, by the way, if you pass it, you're a go_. _On our fourth date we have lunch and then ice-cream and stroll along the Thames._

Sansa puts her phone down and closes her eyes, because this is _more_ than just friendly banter now, this is Serious Stuff. What if he _does_ say something about dinner? What if they _do_ start... dating?

He's...  Well saying he’s not really Joffrey Baratheon – the only person she's ever had a serious relationship with – is putting it lightly. Joffrey, to put it in simple terms, was a little shit who'd got away with just about everything simply because his da once used to be England's star striker. That had been a time of dramatic ups and downs and tears and storms and tantrums and just _thinking_ about it made her sweat, not least because Joffrey had tried to pull several numbers on her before she'd managed to clear him out of her life for good. And even then, she'd spent at least two weeks being miserable, because she _had_ cared and she'd had it all shattered and being disillusioned about classically handsome young lads was never a pleasant journey.

So it's not as though she _knows_ what a relationship - a _normal_?? relationship between equals - really looks like. Do they just fall into things like this with none of the wild tizzy of emotions that she's been told goes along with the L word?

_So how does dinner at the Savoy Grill, next Monday at 7 sound?_

Oh but she could get used to the fluttery little butterflies in her tummy and the little warm glow in her chest. Definitely could get used to that.

 _Lovely. You're a fast learner_. And then, just to be sure. _I'll see you there_.

 


End file.
